Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  “Okay,” I said, thinking that she had found a gorgeous designer bag or a beautiful new dress for me. We shop together often so she knows my taste for the colorful and the sequined. She will pick up pieces she knows I will love so I was eager to see what her latest adventure had uncovered. When she opened the door I could tell she was excited, too.

  “Look, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want it,” she said quickly. “But this just has Fronie written all over it and I think you’re supposed to have it.” She took me into the room she used as an office, but we almost couldn’t get in. It was full of boxes and pieces of furniture. The blinds were down so Jenny had to turn on a light. She said, “This is for you.”

  There, practically glowing in the center of the room, was a chaise: yellow, slim, with a curved back, tufted fabric and mahogany legs. It was sleek, smart and fabulous. I was stunned.

  The designer had brought it in for her living room, but Jenny felt the chaise wouldn’t survive being subjected daily to her two dogs and eight-year-old son. She told me she had been at a loss what to do with it so she sat down with her housekeeper to do some brainstorming over the situation. Together they looked at the chaise for a long time. “Then,” Jenny said, “we both looked at each other and said, at the same time, ‘This is Sophfronia’s chaise.’”

  I stood there and fought back tears because I just couldn’t explain to Jenny how humbled and loved I felt in that moment. I felt as though God were saying to me, “Anything you want, little girl. Anything .” And price was definitely no object. That first chaise I had seen cost $1,500.

  The second, $225. This one, which so perfectly suited me and my home in terms of size, color and style, carried a retail price of over $8,000. I got it for free. From then on I knew it was okay to share all of my dreams with God, and that it was all right—in fact, his wish for me to want big and dream big. I would never hold back again.

  Today I do live in a beautiful 3,000 square-foot house where I have my own office and library with inspiring views of Connecticut’s woodlands. And my chaise? It’s in my bedroom where it sits with a tall Arts and Crafts style reading lamp and stacks of books on the floor. I love watching my toddler son climb onto the chaise and that is where we read together. Is this what I asked for? Well, no, not quite. This is even better.

  Sophfronia Scott

  The Bus Vouchers

  No matter what accomplishments you make, somebody helps you.

  Wilma Rudolph

  Leaving home for work late one day near the end of December, I missed my normal bus and had to catch the later one. I checked my watch and knew I could still make it on time, but I was cutting it close—a stressful start to the morning.

  As I sat waiting for the bus, I realized that the end of the month meant the beginning of a new one, which meant it was time to buy my bus pass for January, a cost of $100. Mind you, that was $100 that I didn’t have. The holidays had just passed, my husband was unemployed at the time and things were very tight for our family. I sighed audibly. If I couldn’t get to work, things would only get worse.

  Seeing no other viable options, I began to pray and ask God to help me solve this problem, to send me the money tomeet this need, as I had done in the past for other things. I offered my problem to God, which if nothing else, made me feel better and more prepared to face my day.

  Continuing to pray, I rode past one bus stop. At the second stop, a lady got on the bus whom I had met several weeks prior. She and I often took the same evening bus home and had shared scriptures together and conversations about ways to share God with co-workers. Happy to see her, I smiled.

  As she reached my seat, she said, “Good morning, I have something for you.” I thought perhaps she had a passage she wanted to read to me or a book she wanted to share.

  She sat down and,whispering across the person between us, asked if the company I worked for paid for my transportation. An odd question, I thought, especially in light of my recent concerns, but I let her know that they did not.

  She had the person sitting between us pass me an envelope. I opened the envelope and therewere bus vouchers for the months of January, February and part of March—worth $226! I can only imagine how surprised I must have looked.

  God had certainly answeredmy prayers before, and I trusted that he would again, but I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly and efficiently, immediately after uttering the prayer!

  I looked up at her speechless and she explained, “I accepted a position in Texas andwill bemoving therewithin a few days. I prepurchased these bus vouchers and they are nonrefundable. I didn’t want them to go to waste, so when I prayed over what the best thing to do with them was, spirit told me to give the bus vouchers to you. I took an earlier bus than I normally do, hoping to see you thismorning.”

  Obviously, God had been working on the solution even before I recognized the problem. We cried together, all the way to work, when we recognized how clearly we were both a part of God’s plan.

  This turned out to be the perfect way for me to share God with my co-workers as, needless to say, I shared the testimony with whomever I could find that would listen.

  Ruthell Cook Price

  You’ll Do It for Me

  Faith is the first factor in a life devoted to service.

  Without it, nothing is possible. With it, nothing is impossible.

  Mary McLeod Bethune

  I couldn’t believe I was in a place like this. As I walked down the hall, I found myself silently pleading with God for an answer to the question, Why is this happening to me?

  Safely in the cell, a hollow sigh escaped my lips as I checked out my new surroundings. The furnishings were simple . . . an iron bed frame with nomattress and a toilet— on top of which sat a carton of ice tea.

  There were two other girls in my new temporary home, and we spent the next few minutes getting acquainted. One had shoplifted a pair of socks from the dollar store; the other was too incoherent to share what she had done; I had spanked my son.

  The series of events that led me to this moment constitutes another entire story, but let it suffice to say that I was not the kind of girl who generally ended up in a place like this, nor the kind of mother who would be accused of abuse. As the mother of six, one only a few weeks old, it was not only remarkable but unfathomable to my family and to me that I was in jail, with Christmas only a few days away.

  Before long an officer fetched me from the cell and escorted me to have my fingerprints taken. The process lasted about five minutes, and when I returned, my roommates were gone and so was the tea.

  Within seconds, a woman who put fear in my heart was being led to the cell, and she was not happy. Neither was I. We stood face to face . . . okay, head to chest . . . okay, how about toe to toe. She towered over me. Her eyes darted toward the toilet and then rested firmly on mine. It felt like staring into two torches. Her chest heaved, and from her mouth the words spewed like lava from an erupting volcano. “Who took my tea?”

  I returned the stare while craning my neck and attempted to respond with an equal amount of bass in my voice, “Not me.” I seized the opportunity to walk away triumphantly and plopped myself onto the bed. I had forgotten there was no mattress. Ouch. I sat on the cold iron contemplating the possibility of being killed for something I didn’t even do.

  She stood momentarily looking at me and then proceeded to climb atop the toilet. It turns out her boyfriend was in the cell adjacent to ours. They had both been arrested and conveniently, there was a little cut-out window above the toilet through which they could communicate.

  As I watched her, contemplating my impending doom, an inner voice whispered gently, Ask her if she is okay . I almost choked. I thought to myself, You have got to be crazy.

  I’m not talking to her. But the voice was insistent. Despite my inner grumbling, I had to obey.

  She climbed down from the toilet and took a seat next to me, obviously annoyed. I swallowed hard, looked her in the eyes and asked quietly
and respectfully, “Are you okay?”

  Immediately, her countenance was transformed. Her face became soft. I could see that she was vulnerable, confused and afraid just like me.

  She began to tell me about how her boyfriend had violated a restraining order, and when the cops came to arrest him, he squealed on her for having numerous outstanding warrants. Now, they were both in jail.

  She explained how the officers refused to take her to her house to get her heart medicine. Her anger was fueled by their refusal to fulfill a basic need.

  “Baby, you gotta keep your faith,” I said in an attempt to encourage her. I was probably speaking as much to myself as to her, but I felt her frustration.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Jesus gonna work it out,” she responded sarcastically. “I tried that stuff, and look what it has gotten me. I was trying to live right, and now I’m gonna be sent back to prison.”

  “Listen, your faith is all you have,” I told her while trying to convince myself. “I don’t understand why God is allowing me to go through what I’m going through, either, but I have to hold on to my faith. Faith is all we have. We have to hold on.”

  In between toilet-top dialogues with her boyfriend, we spent the next hour sharing as only sisters can. We talked about faith.We talked about our kids.We talked about forgiving and being forgiven. She told me what her future held, being sent back to prison for the next three years. She shared what it was like to be an inmate there, and it brought tears to my eyes.

  Toward the end of our time together, she climbed atop the toilet one last time and made a bold declaration to her boyfriend. “Baby, I’ve decided what I’m going to do when I get back to prison. I’m going to stay to myself, and I am staying with the Lord.” I was engulfed by joy and a sense of purpose as an inner voice answered my earlier question, This is the reason why you had to pass through here.

  Within minutes, the officers arrived to transport me to my next destination. Before leaving, we embraced like true sisters and newly made best friends.

  She looked at me teary eyed and said assuredly, “I am going to see you again.”With that, I was led away. I hoped that we would meet again—on the outside, not the inside of this system. I was sent home on my own recognizance, with an impending court hearing ahead of me. I had no idea what the future held for me or my family.

  Yet, in spite of my personal anguish, I could not get her off my mind. For the whole next month, I prayed for her every day. The urgency was something I could not get away from. Though a blanket of depression attempted to smother me as I faced the possibility of a prison sentence, I prayed for her. Then quite suddenly, at the end of January, the urgency was gone.

  On a brisk February day, my girlfriend called to let me know she had free tickets to the circus for my children and me. Initially, I was elated, but soon depression engulfed my entire being, and I tried to find excuses not to go. Not able to find one that she would accept, I got the kids ready and went.

  We got to the front gate and presented our tickets. I walked through the gate first and briefly glanced at a vaguely familiar face. I continued to walk, but that inner voice commanded me to turn around and look again. Our eyes met and our mouths dropped open. It was her. Barely able to speak, we cried and held each other for what felt like forever. She told me that, for reasons she could not explain, she was released and exonerated at the end of January.

  Inside the circus, her seat was a few rows behind mine.

  Every now and then, I would turn around to watch her. She was beautiful, happy and free. Now, rather than me helping her to find her faith, unknowingly she was helping me to reclaim mine. I watched, and the inner voice spoke. This is the reason you had to come here today. I wanted you to see the fruit of your labor and to know that if I did it for her, I will surely do it for you.

  So right there, in the midst of the gaiety and in the presence of my friend, I lifted my eyes to heaven and boldly reaffirmed my faith.

  And just in case you’re wondering, God did do it for me! Now, my family and my faith are stronger than ever.

  Nancy Gilliam

  Solid Ground

  Aviolinist has a violin, a painter his palette. All I had was myself. I was the instrument that I must care for.

  Josephine Baker

  I have worn many shoes in my lifetime. .

  The worn, dusty sandals of a child, sitting quietly on my grandma’s porch as I watched her plant a peach tree and sing church songs in the front yard of her small flat.

  A frayed pair of black-and-white tennis shoes, as I anxiously waited to be picked for a game of baseball in the housing projects where I grew up.

  My shoes were my own, sometimes purchased, but most times, hand-me-downs.

  But my feet were on solid ground.

  I have worn many shoes in my lifetime. . . .

  My first pair of jellies, I can remember them so clearly, powder blue, with glitter sparkles. A preteen now, feeling more like a young lady and less like a child, I loved those shoes. They were so uncomfortable, and yet they were my favorites.

  I can still picture my first pair of pink high heel shoes, worn to my first dance. I broke the right heel trying to do the hustle and ended up sitting on the sidelines, while the boy I liked danced with another girl with two good shoes.

  My shoe—beyond repair; my spirit—intact.

  And as I look back on that day, My feet were on solid ground.

  I have worn many shoes in my lifetime. . . .

  I recall so clearly the green open toes I wore when I met the boy, my first love . . . who stood so tall, and seemed so sure of himself that I wanted to be in his presence, even if my presence didn’t have the same impact on him.

  The borrowed maroon shoes of a future sister-in-law, while I took vows I didn’t understand, because the boy, my first love, and I conceived a son at a time when common sense and wisdom had not yet entered our teenage minds. . . . Afraid, because I had to grow up fast; confused, because the boy, my first love, refused to do the same—and yet

  My feet were on solid ground.

  I have worn many shoes in my lifetime. . . .

  The black flats with the tiny scuff on the left toe, I wore to bury my twenty-two-year-old baby brother. . . .

  The snow-white tennis shoes with the purple lining that were on my feet the day I found out the State Department of Corrections would not allow my mother to say good-bye to her son, one last time, before I buried him.

  The tattered yellow flip-flops that were on my feet the day I saw the boy, my first love, now a man, on television, being sentenced to the death penalty.

  And in spite of it all, or maybe because of it all . . .

  My feet are on solid ground.

  I have worn many shoes in my lifetime. . . .

  The dust-covered construction boots I wore as I proudly contributed to the building of my very own Habitat for Humanity home.

  The white hospital scuffs I wore, after giving birth to my second man-child miracle.

  The patent leather sandals that adorned my feet when I proudly escorted my eldest son to the airport to visit the college he would attend in the fall.

  And the fuzzy pink house slippers I wear now, as I lift my hands, my heart and soul to give praise to a higher being, who has made it possible for me to live my moments as a strong African American woman, one moment at a time, one step at a time.

  Sometimes in shoes, sometimes on bare feet, sometimes on my knees, but . . .

  Thank God, always, On solid ground.

  Yvonda Johnson

  Lord, Please Make One for Me!

  People see God every day. They just don’t recognize him.

  Pearl Bailey

  Lord, I know that you made Adam in your image and he proved how imperfect he could be

  But if you should decide to make another, this time God,

  could you make a man for me?

  It would be nice if he could be a good listener, ’tho when

  I’m nervous, I do ramble on an
d on

  And could you please give him some strong shoulders so

  when I’m stressed, I’ll have someone to lean on.

  When it comes to patience, he will need a double portion

  ’cause sometimes I can really stretch one’s nerves.

  Make him just a little shy; let him be pleasing to the eye,

  but from 1 to 10, I’ll grade him on a curve!

  Give him plenty of compassion, make him stern but

  understanding.

  Give him the deep-set eyes I’d fall for but make it a

  happy landing.

  Oh, and Lord, please make sure that his self-esteem’s

  secure, and if he’s just a little stubborn, that’s okay.

  Give him a good job and a future. Help him to reach his

  goals, but I don’t want him if he’s all work and no play.

  A little sensitive and unashamed if he should shed a tear and not afraid to say just how he feels.

  I guess what I want to say more than anything, today,

  is God, I need a man that’s real!

  Give him a tender heart, and I’d love it if he’s smart. It

  would be a blessing just to hold good conversation.

  Give him height but not too much; add a slow hand and

  gentle touch and a voice that sends my heart to

  palpitations.

  Lord, please add a sense of humor and a very sexy laugh,

  and let him blush if I should whisper my intentions.

  Give him passion, lots of passion, P-A-S-S-I-O-N, and oh

  God, please, bless his imagination!

  He has to love you first, then I won’t worry about us;

  above all else, he must become my friend.

  Oh, and before you send him down, dip him well in

  chocolate brown and give him (sigh) an adorable